“Neely is going to kill me.” I fumbled in my clutch for the tube of emergency tinted lip gloss he’d anticipated me needing. “Would you mind?” I dipped the brush into the bottle and passed him the wand. “I’m afraid if I make it to the bathrooms, I’ll hide and never come out.”
“I’ll do my best.” He swiped the tip gently over my bottom lip, and the broken skin stung. “There.” He drew back to admire his handiwork. “Good as new.” He snapped his fingers, and one of the guards appeared at his side. “What do you think?”
The male spared me the briefest of glances. “She is flawless, sir.”
Volkov’s final inspection lingered far longer. “She is that.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I tucked away the gloss, certain I would need it again later.
We entered the elevator, Volkov and me pressed into one corner by the four guards positioned between us and the door. He toyed with the bangle he’d given me, his fingers blazing hot trails over my wrist. The guards used a key to open the control panel and pushed the button for the subbasement that held the Lyceum.
“Is this normal for you?” I whispered. “All these guards?”
“No.” He caught himself taking liberties and lowered his hand. “Our laws demand I keep two guards with me at all times in public, but they’re not usually so intrusive. The rest are a precaution.”
“No hints?”
“Afraid not.”
I blasted out the deepest exhale my bodice allowed. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“Soon we will be allowed to speak candidly,” he assured me. “Then there will be no secrets between us.”
I pasted on a smile to cover the knee-jerk urge to contradict him. We all kept secrets. Some out of kindness, some in anger, and others to protect ourselves. But I doubt he’d meant me to take him literally. White lies wove the fabric of the Society, after all.
The elevator slowed and then stopped, and so did my breathing. The doors opened on a rush of tinkling laughter and murmured conversation, and the guards fanned out in the bright hallway. The male nearest us gave a nod, and Volkov led me from the booth onto a glossy expanse of dark crimson tiles, edging into black, the colors so rich they evoked the image of freshly spilled blood starting to congeal. In our lines of work, I supposed the red-on-black decor hid a multitude of sins.
An elderly man wearing a simple gray suit spotted Volkov’s entourage and cleared his throat. “Danill Volkov, Heritor of Clan Volkov, Last Seed of Marcus Volkov, and his lady friend.”
Relief cascaded over me. Entering on his arm was intimidating enough without my name being broadcast throughout the amphitheater.
Silence greeted us as Volkov led me to the circular stage where the aggrieved and the accused stood to receive their judgment before the Society. There was no other way to enter the Lyceum except to cross the dais. Each step blasted chills down my arms as though someone were walking over my grave.
Before us sat an opulent box seat for the Grande Dame’s use. Two silver chairs sat to either side of what might as well have been a throne, the seat golden, gem-studded and as ostentatious as it got. I had to wonder if it wasn’t a holdover from a time when necromancers had been treated as god queens. Pretending there was history to the piece made it more palatable. Maybe I could spend the next few hours concocting a macabre history for it that I could weave into the story I recounted to Amelie.
A half step below this level, a short balcony railing separated a seating area reserved for the lowest rung on the ladder. Made vampires watched us with covetous eyes that flickered black with hunger. On the level above them sat the Low Society matrons. The women cackled and chatted and seemed to enjoy the chance to catch up with one another. I scanned their faces, but Matron Pritchard was absent. The next tier was reserved for Last Seeds. Fewer chairs filled that space, and none of them were occupied. Two shadowy figures I recognized as Volkov’s missing guards checked each chair, each spindle on the railing, each nook and cranny where danger might lurk.
Volkov and I stood there, exposed on the stage, the heat from the bright lights breaking me out in a sweat. I risked a peek at him from the corner of my eye, and his smugness tipped my mouth into a frown. The attention made my skin crawl, but he was lapping it up as his due.
For a male in his position, I suppose this adulation was normal. For me, it was pure torture.
The final row, its adornments brushing against the ceiling, was reserved for the High Society. Unlike the friendly chatter of the Low Society matrons, the High Society dames each kept their own council. A few whispered behind their hands, but on the whole, they gave the impression they had somewhere else they’d rather be, when this ceremony was the social event of the year. More like the decade. Perhaps even this century if Dame Lawson was particularly long-lived. Gold and gemstones dripped from their ears, fingers, necks and wrists. The elaborate beading on their gowns must have weighed fifty pounds, and I had no doubt each design was an original.
Volkov applied slight pressure on my arm, and I snapped my attention back to my own party as I was led to a set of stairs. All those sharp eyes as you strolled to the darkened stairwells made the skin between your shoulder blades twitch as if half the Lyceum’s occupants had daggers trained on your spine.
Two guards walked ahead of us. The staircase was tight, but Volkov remained by my side, and I was grateful for his strength to lean on. The final two guards trailed behind, sandwiching us between a wall of muscle and fang. The two guards who had cleared the area nodded a greeting to Volkov. They dipped their eyes in a show of deference to me that felt undeserved.
We took our seats, positioned above the mouth of the tunnel with a direct view of the empty box where the Grande Dame, both past and future, would soon complete their ceremonial power transfer. Despite the pinch in my middle from where the gown cut into me, I took my first full breath since arriving in the Lyceum.
Volkov leaned close to avoid our conversation being overheard by any sensitive ears present. “You’re upset.”
“Not with you.” He was who he was, and he made no apologies for it. “Nervous.”
“Would you like a drink?” He gestured to the servers circulating with large platters filled with fluted glasses of bubbling pink liquid. “It might settle your nerves.”
“Sure.” Tonight I would take all the help I could get.
A guard appeared at my elbow seconds later. He must have fetched the drink prior to Volkov asking me. He was a master at anticipating needs, I’d give him that.
“Thank you.” I accepted the drink and sipped. Tart lime and pink grapefruit hit my tongue edged with a slight bitterness. Or maybe that was the memory dredged up by the taste. “What’s this called?”
I wanted to make sure I never ordered it again by accident.
Reading the pucker of my lips as permission to relieve me of my drink, Volkov accepted the glass and sipped. “A Long-Faced Dove.” He laughed at my wrinkled nose. “Would you like something else?”
“That seems to be the only drink circulating.” I clutched my small purse in my lap, snapping and unsnapping its clasp. “I can hold out a while longer.” I offered him a weak smile. “Though I might need a drink when I get out of here.”
If I got out of here.
“That can be arranged.” Volkov settled back in his chair and started people-watching. “Do you have a favorite drink?”
“Not really.” I’d turned twenty-one inside Atramentous, and getting sloshed hadn’t been high on my priority list since my release. For one thing, alcohol was expensive. For another, it was an addictive balm that left you right back where you started from, just poorer for your trouble. “Amelie and I used to sneak into Boaz’s parties back in high school. I had a margarita once. The girl he was dating at the time blended them like a pro, said it was her mom’s favorite. I liked that.”